The Hum and the Shiver

by Alex Bledsoe

  “Reverend Chess, what a surprise.” She looked around. “Where’s Terry-Joe? Jack Tenney just called for him.”

  “He’s on his way there,” Bronwyn said.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” Craig said. “I wanted to check on Bronwyn and see if she needed anything from town.” And, he thought to himself, to see what the devil Don Swayback meant about not finding the road. And to make up for being a coward on Thursday. “I’m going into Johnson City later this week, so if you all need anything picked up there, I’d be glad to.”

  Chloe smiled, and for an instant Craig felt a little dizzy. The resemblance between mother and daughter was extraordinary, but the differences were even more pronounced. There was a hard edge to Brownyn, but Chloe was all soft curves and gentle feelings, an earth mother in the truest sense. And, he realized uncomfortably, as sexy in her mature way as Bronwyn was in her youthful one.

  Chloe’s smile grew into a grin, as if she’d followed his thoughts. “I’ll pour you kids some iced tea,” she said, and went back inside.

  Craig turned to Bronwyn. “So … what sort of music do you listen to?”

  She didn’t want to give him the same answer she’d given Terry-Joe; a non-Tufa might not get it. She tapped her temple and said, “Things are still a little scrambled up here. I’ll have to take a rain check on answering that. What about you?”

  “Ironically, my favorite musician is John Hiatt.”

  “No relation to us, I reckon.”

  “Well, it is spelled differently.”

  “Not exactly religious, though, is he?”

  “You think religious people can only listen to religious music?”

  “I thought professionally religious people had to, yeah.”

  “Maybe at one time, and maybe some still. But I don’t hold with isolating yourself from the world. I may not watch MTV or play on the computer every night, but I try to leave myself open to new things. If I disagree with something, I like to be able to explain why. To myself, if no one else.”

  “So do you agree with the war?” she asked, then mentally slapped herself. Why was she trying to pick a fight?

  He didn’t seem offended. “Me? No. The whole ‘thou shalt not kill’ rule is pretty clear.” Suddenly he remembered whom he was talking to. “I hope you don’t take that personally.”

  She laughed. “No. I’ve seen plenty of Christian killers, and Muslim killers, and the occasional Jewish killer. As near as I can tell, believing in their various gods just eggs them on.”

  “What denomination are you?” he asked as casually as he could.

  “My family’s Tufa, Reverend. We believe what we’ve always believed.”

  Smiling, he pressed on. “And what’s that?”

  “That it’s not polite to discuss religion with company.”

  He leaned a little closer. “And how long until I’m not company?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll always be company to most of the Tufa, Reverend, even if you married me.”

  Instantly she blushed bright red and looked away. Where the hell had that come from?

  Craig stood, brushed off his jeans, and said, “Well, I didn’t mean to be rude. It was nice to see you again, Bronwyn.”

  Chloe came out with two glasses of tea, and looked puzzled when she saw Craig on his feet. “Not leaving so soon are you, Reverend?”

  “I don’t want to tire Bronwyn out. Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Hyatt. I’ll take a rain check, if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course. You’re welcome any time.”

  Chloe watched Craig get into his car and drive away. “He is a handsome man, isn’t he?”

  Bronwyn said nothing, instead staring at a viceroy butterfly as it danced across the yard. She’d seen the flash of hurt in Craig’s eyes, and had let him go without a word. Was the Bronwynator, who’d once propositioned her sexy-bald high school principal, suddenly ashamed she found a man attractive? Had she deliberately driven him off?

  Chloe sat down, sipped the tea she’d intended for Craig, and said, “You think you’re up to doing it?”

  Bronwyn’s eyes opened wide. “What, with the preacher?”

  “No, learning to play again. What did you think I meant?”

  “Never mind. And it’s not like I have a choice, is it?”

  Chloe looked down. “I reckon not. You have to take it on.”

  “Because you’re ready to die.” It came out as an accusation.

  Chloe sighed. “No, Bronwyn, I’m not ready to die. I’m not like you, I never sought it out to see what it felt like. And it beats me where you get it from; your daddy’s the most sensible man I ever met, and your brothers are both level-headed, even Aiden. I never thought I was a wild one, but it had to come from somewhere, and you and me, we’re Tufa women, so we’re pretty connected.”

  “Don’t feel guilty for me, Mom,” Bronwyn said with no sympathy. “I did what I wanted, every day of my life. The time to turn me from that road was when I was little and still scared of you. It’s too late for both of us now.”

  “No, ma’am,” Chloe said seriously. “It’s never too late, not for a Tufa. We got all of time to play in, if we want it. You don’t like who you are, change it.”

  “Do you like who you are?”

  “I’ve got a good man who loves me, two fine sons, and a war hero for a daughter. I know my songs, I know my stories. Yeah, I like who I am.”

  “You never wanted to be more than that? More than some Tufa jukebox?”

  “You seem to think that ain’t enough. It is for me. Lots of people never know their purpose, never know their songs or their stories. Rich ain’t just about money.”

  “So you’re rich.”

  “You may understand that sometime. You might even feel the same way. I sure hope you do, Bronwyn, because it’s the sweetest feeling in the world. I ain’t in no hurry to give it up, but if the night wind wants me, I’ll go with no regrets. When them Iraqis had you, could you have said the same thing?”

  Bronwyn started to get angry. “No, Mom, I couldn’t because I was too fucking busy fighting to stay alive. I didn’t just sigh and accept the next song on the playlist, like you’re doing. You want to leave Aiden without a mother? You think that’ll make him rich?”

  “I think you need to calm down,” Chloe said. Her voice was even, but Bronwyn heard the edge to it. “You left. You made your choice. You really don’t have the high ground on this.”

  Bronwyn wanted desperately to leap up, stomp inside, and slam the door. She wanted to hop into her truck, tear off down the road with the radio blasting while she smoked a joint to calm down. But she could only sit and look at her mother, at the unaccustomed anger simmering in her face, and endure it.

  “Maybe there is no high ground,” Bronwyn said after a moment. “Maybe the night winds don’t carry us anymore. Maybe they just drag us along.”

  15

  The road between the Hyatt farm and Needsville was empty except for one tractor pulling a rusted old combine. The driver was kind enough to pull aside and let Craig pass. He waved at the farmer, turned up the music on the radio, and headed into Needsville on his way back home.

  He was fuming, although he wasn’t exactly sure why. Sure, the “even if you married me” bit could’ve just been a joke, but Craig was pretty sure Bronwyn knew he was attracted to her. If so, why would she be so snotty about it? Had that cruel state trooper been right? Was this the real Bronwynator, only now reemerging from the haze of her wartime experiences?

  He saw the Needsville post office ahead on the right. Even though the building was closed, Rockhouse Hicks sat on the porch, his eyes resolutely straight ahead.

  Impulsively Craig whipped his car into a parking place, stopping so hard, the belt yanked tight against his shoulder. The old man did not acknowledge Craig until he settled into the empty rocker beside him and said, “Morning, Mr. Hicks.”

  Hicks grunted a reply. His chair squeaked rhythmically as it went back and forth.

  “What�
�s been happening in town today?”

  “Sun came up, you sat down,” he said with no inflection. “That’s about it.”

  “Pretty much all that ever happens, isn’t it?”

  “During the week the postman raises the American flag.”

  Craig sat back and rocked in unison with the old man for a few moments. “Missed you in church this morning.”

  “Didn’t know you were shooting at me,” Hicks said.

  Craig chuckled. “That’s a good one.” After more silence, he continued, “The town sure looks different than it did when Bronwyn Hyatt’s parade came through.”

  Hicks leaned over and spit off the edge of the porch. “Hyatts,” he said. “I know you been keeping company with ’em. Nothing but white trash, all of ’em.”

  Craig hid his annoyance. “Yeah, I’ve been to visit a few times, but that’s kinda harsh, isn’t it?”

  “That Chloe Hyatt? Back when she was Chloe Smith, you could find her out in the fields with a different boy every night. Sometimes even with boys whose blood was a little too close to her own, if you take what I mean. That sound harsh to you?”

  “Well, yeah, actually. Sounds like gossip.”

  “Ain’t no gossip. That’s pure-D fact. Come up on her a few times myself when I’d be out hunting or fishing. Scared up her and whatever boy she was with. All I seen was assholes and elbows.” He snorted at the memory, a sound so full of bile that Craig understood anew why everyone left the old man alone. “And that daughter of hers is the same way. Before she run off to join the army, she made sure every boy in the county knew what a girl’s mouth could do for them.”

  “I’m sure you have a few youthful indiscretions in your own past, Mr. Hicks,” Craig said, but he found it hard to keep his tone even. How did Hicks know he’d visited the Hyatts unless one of them told him?

  “Not like that Bronwyn Hyatt. She was a hellion for sure. Had an abortion when she was sixteen, did you know that? Wouldn’t never say who the daddy was. I figure it was that oldest Gitterman boy, Dwayne, but hell, could’ve been anyone old enough to stand at attention, the way she carried on. Might as well have strapped a mattress to her back.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hicks,” Craig said as he started to rise.

  “Sit down!” Hicks barked. “You don’t walk off when I’m talking to you!”

  Craig stared; the old man’s sudden burst of fury was overwhelming, like a volcano that had previously been merely placidly steaming. His face blazed bright red beneath his cap, and his eyes shone as if lit internally. Demonic was the word that first came to mind.

  Craig slowly sat back down. He forced himself to step outside his immediate resentment. Whatever else, he could at least spend a few minutes listening; perhaps Hicks had been unpleasant for so long, he knew no other way to be. Christ wouldn’t stomp off in a huff.

  Hicks glared at him, showing more animation than Craig had ever seen. “Let me tell you about your ‘war hero,’ Reverend. That little slut spent four months in juvenile jail for stealing a car when she was fourteen. She was arrested twice for selling dope, but shook that little ass of hers and got out of it. Does that sound like some goddamn hero to you? It don’t to me, that’s for certain. Yeah, sure, she got all shot up and got rescued on live TV, but that ain’t nothing. Sure as shit ain’t heroic.”

  Then as quickly as it rose, the storm of rage passed. His color returned to normal, and he resumed his methodical rocking. After a long moment Craig said, “Anything else?”

  “Naw,” Hicks said, looking straight ahead. He seemed content, satisfied that he’d somehow done his job.

  “Well … I’ll be going then.” He stopped halfway through standing to see if the old man would bellow at him again, but there was nothing. He left the porch as quickly as he could without running.

  Back in his car, the air conditioner blasting in his face, he had time to evaluate. Maybe Hicks was sliding into dementia. Yet his anger had not been irrational, just out of proportion. Perhaps it was simply the ire that can fester in isolated small towns, especially when one person is singled out for notoriety. Craig had witnessed that before, just never out in public and with such an abrupt, 180-degree shift.

  Or maybe, he thought with sudden insight, this was all designed by a much greater hand to show him that Bronwyn Hyatt would never be a suitable partner for a preacher. Perhaps the pain he endured now would spare him a greater pain later.

  As he pulled out of the lot, he noticed that the door at the building’s back corner, marked with a tiny sign as NEEDSVILLE CITY HALL, now stood open. In the three months Craig had visited Needsville regularly, he’d never seen that, so he immediately pulled the car back into its space and got out. He avoided eye contact with Hicks until the old man was out of sight.

  He knocked on the doorframe, then stuck his head inside the tiny office. “Hello?”

  Marshall Goins looked up from behind an old wooden desk. A green filing cabinet stood against the wall, along with a photo of Bill Monroe where, in most city halls, the current governor’s portrait would hang. “Well, howdy, Reverend,” he said with a big grin. He stood and offered his hand. “Just getting the water bills ready to go out. What brings you around?”

  “I’ve never seen the city hall open before,” Craig said honestly.

  Marshall laughed. “That’s true enough. Not a lot of civic business in a town of less than three hundred. But we do have to send out the bills, and every so often, somebody’ll need something notarized.”

  “Are you the mayor?”

  “’Fraid so. Hard to get shed of the job when no one runs against you.”

  “Could be a sign of confidence.”

  “Or laziness,” Marshall said with a laugh.

  Craig looked around. “So this is the seat of power for Needsville.”

  “I don’t know about ‘power.’ You got the two Tufa tribes each with their own place, and—” Suddenly he scowled and shook his head. “Listen to me, sounding like I know something. You know, Reverend, you got a way of making a fella so relaxed, he forgets his good sense.”

  Craig knew he’d just lucked up on something and had to proceed carefully. “I think it’s just because everyone here is so friendly. Sure can’t be because you’re used to preachers.”

  “That’s true,” Marshall said. “Hope you can make it work, though. You’re a lot more easygoing than some have been.”

  “Marshall, why don’t you go to church? Why don’t any of the Tufa go to church? We are in the Bible Belt, after all.” He deliberately kept the same jovial, carefree tone, but inside he was alive with anticipation.

  “The Tufa.” Marshall snorted. “Do you know what the Tufa are, Reverend? We’re people they ain’t got any other name for. We ain’t white, we ain’t black, we ain’t red, we sure ain’t Mexican or Chinese. I don’t even know what the word means. And maybe it means nothing at all. If I was to leave Needsville, nobody’d look at me twice. They sure wouldn’t need a special name for me.”

  Craig smiled. “Is that the truth, Mr. Goins?”

  Marshall laughed. “I reckon so. Who’d lie to a preacher?”

  “Somebody with a guilty conscience.”

  “My conscience is as white as the first winter snow,” he said, looking heavenward and batting his eyes.

  They both laughed. Craig decided to take a risk, based on his sense of Marshall’s innate decency. “Hey, can I ask you something and have you promise to keep it between us?”

  “Of course, Reverend.”

  “I’ve been hearing some gossip about Bronwyn Hyatt. I know she was pretty wild before she joined the army, but what I’ve been told goes way beyond that. Wondered how much of it was true.”

  Marshall paused and thought. “Well, Bronwyn was a hellion. They called her the Bronwynator, you know. She’d take a drink, a draw, or a dare from anybody. And she ran with a rough crowd. But I tell you, I’ve known Deacon and Chloe all my life, and they wouldn’t raise a child with a bad song in her soul.
Besides, she’s too important to us.”

  “Because she’s a hero?”

  He looked startled, shook his head, and laughed again. “Boy, you can sure put a fellow off his line, Reverend. You don’t be worrying about Miss Brownyn Hyatt. That leg of hers may be a little stiff, but a year from now, I bet you won’t even know she was hurt unless you’re close enough she shows you the scars. All that other talk—” He held up a bottle of Wite-Out. “Time has a way of covering up mistakes, just like this stuff does. She mighta sowed some wild oats, maybe even done some things that crossed the line of the law. But a fella’s got to have faith in his fellow man, or woman, doesn’t he?”

  “I’ve always thought so.”

  “Of course you have, that’s your job.”

  “Yes, but it’s also what I believe. It’s what made me want to take the job.”

  Marshall gestured at the stacks of bills and envelopes. “Well, my wife made me take this job, so I best get to it. The wrath of God ain’t a patch on the wrath of an angry woman.”

  Craig left more perplexed than ever, but convinced he’d been on the verge of learning something significant about the Tufa. And he had learned quite a bit about Bronwyn Hyatt. Now he had to decide how he felt about it.

  16

  Susie Swayback opened her front door and muttered, with more than her usual annoyance, “Baptists.”

  Don looked up from tuning his guitar. “And tigers and bears, oh my?”

  “No, that stupid Ethelene Hightower.” She kicked off her shoes beside the door. Ethelene was a member of a tiny Baptist congregation that refused to let its members work on Sundays. Therefore, whenever Ethelene rotated to weekend duty, she would pass on any Sunday calls to one of the other X-ray techs. Susie had been paged on their way home from church to do a chest series on a drunken young man who’d driven his ATV into a tree as he chased a coyote. “I have to go all the way in to work just so her husband won’t beat her up.”

  “He beats her up?”